celebrate?
13th April, month of Venus--
Birthday of my boss, Maecenas.

Let me, Phyllis, say a word
Touching Telephus, a bird
Ranking far too high above you;
(And the loafer doesn't love you).

Lessons, Phyllie, may be learned
From Phaeton--how he was burned!
And recall Bellerophon was
One equestrian who thrown was.

Phyllis, of my loves the last,
My philandering days are past.
Sing you, in your clear contralto,
Songs I write for the rialto.

Advising Chloe

Horace: Book I, Ode 23

_"Vitas hinnuleo me similis, Chloe----"_

Why shun me, my Chloe? Nor pistol nor bowie
Is mine with intention to kill.
And yet like a llama you run to your mamma;
You tremble as though you were ill.

No lion to rend you, no tiger to end you,
I'm tame as a bird in a cage.
That counsel maternal can run for _The Journal_--
You get me, I guess.... You're of age.

To An Aged Cut-up

Horace: Book III, Ode 15

I

"_Uxor pauperis Ibyci,
Tandem nequitiae fige modum tuae----_"

IN CHLORIN

Dear Mrs. Ibycus, accept a little sound advice,
Your manners and your speech are over-bold;
To chase around the sporty way you do is far from nice;
Believe me, darling, you are growing old.

Now Pholoe may fool around (she dances like a doe!)
A debutante has got to think of men;
But you were twenty-seven over thirty years ago--
You ought to be asleep at half-past ten.

O Chloris, cut the ragging and the roses and the rum--
Delete the drink, or better, chop the booze!
Go buy a skein of yarn and make the knitting needles hum,
And imitate the art of Sister Suse.

II

Chloris, lay off the flapper stuff;
What's fit for Pholoe, a fluff,
Is not for Ibycus's wife--
A woman at your time of life!

Ignore, old dame, such pleasures as
The shimmy and "the Bacchus Jazz";
Your presence with the maidens jars--
You are the cloud that dims the stars.

Your daughter Pholoe may stay
Out nights upon the Appian Way;
Her love for Nothus, as you know,
Makes her as playful as a doe.

No jazz for you, no jars of wine,
No rose that blooms incarnadine.
For one thing only are you fit:
Buy some Lucerian wool--and knit!

His Monument

Horace: Book III, Ode 30

"_Exegi monumentum aere perennius----_"

The monument that I have built is durable as brass,
And loftier than the Pyramids which mock the years that pass.
Nor blizzard can destroy it, nor furious rain corrode--
Remember, I'm the bard that